


How to Flirt (With Pictures)

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Awkward Flirting, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**no actual pictures :P**</p>
<p>Sherlock needs to learn how to flirt and who better to test it on than John?<br/>A 5+1 in flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John stood at the bar waiting patiently for the bar tender to acknowledge him when a man came up and squeezed into the space between him and the next person.

"How much does a polar bear weigh?" a dark voice asked and John looked up surprised. He saw bright blue eyes smiling down at him and automatically returned the smile, but confused he asked, "What? I don't--" He shook his head.

"Enough to break the ice," the other man said and held out his hand. "Hi, my name is Peter."

John laughed. He was delighted. Confused, too, but mostly amused. He shook the hand.

"Is it now? Well, I'm Steve."

"Nice to meet you, Steve. May I buy you a beer?" The 'stranger', _Peter_ , had let go of John's, _Steve's_ , hand after he had held it a moment longer than necessary and turned around to the bar. With a twenty pounds note in his hand he waved at the bar tender who of course came over immediately. John rolled his eyes. Every time. It was so unfair.

"Two beers, please," Peter said in a voice that didn't fit in this pub. The bar tender looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"What kind of beer?" he asked. John stepped in.

"A pint of Symonds and one of London Pride, please," he ordered. While they waited for their orders to be filled, he turned to his company. The man had lost some of his confidence now that he had John’s attention.

"So, Peter. Tell me everything about you," John challenged. The other man's eyes glistened.

"Oh, I wouldn't know where to start," he said mysteriously. Their drinks arrived and were being paid for, all putting a momentary lull on their conversation, but then they carried theirs glasses over to a free table.

"Don't you want to go back to sit with your friends?" Peter asked John.

"Nah. This is more fun," John replied and sat down. And it was. He leant back in his chair and took a sip of his pint, grinning and feeling utterly relaxed. His eyes swept over the man sitting opposite him, who hadn't even taken off his coat yet and looked uncomfortable the way he was perched on the edge of his chair.

"So, you come here often?" John asked flirtily. At the surprised look on his opponent's face he laughed again. "You really don't know where to go from here, do you?" he asked and took another sip.

"No," the other man confessed. "I found that line online and thought you might like it. It didn't say how to go on once you've established contact."

"Usually you just go with what feels comfortable. But seeing as you don't do 'comfortable', yeah I see your problem." The other man smirked a little and tried his cider. He looked pleased with the taste and surprised that John should have chosen it for him.

"What?" John answered the question raised by his eyebrows. "You like Granny Smiths. Was not a far leap." He leant forwards again and put his pint on the table.

"So. First things first, take off that damn coat. You look ridiculous in it."

"I don't," Sherlock, because John thought they were back in their own realm now and it was safe to think of him in his own name, pouted but took off the garment.

"Secondly, you might want to try to relax a bit. Don't look so tense. Lean back, spread your legs, show some dominance." Sherlock did that, too, but looked dubious.

"People like that?"

"We like confidence."

"And this implies confidence?”

“It implies that you’re confident I would like to touch your penis, yeah.” Sherlock choked on his cider and John took a self-satisfied sip of his own pint. He started to really enjoy this night.

“So, is this for a case then?” he asked after Sherlock had stopped coughing.

“Something like that,” Sherlock evaded vaguely. John let his eyes roam over him, from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes. Sherlock was visibly fighting the instinct of crossing his legs under his scrutiny and John enjoyed that too. It was fun, having their roles reversed.

He didn’t say anything for a long while until Sherlock gave in and at least closed his legs, at which point John’s face broke into a grin.

“Relax, you’re doing fine,” he said leaning forward in his seat. Sherlock looked at him miserably.

“Really?” he asked without hope.

“Sure. You’ve already won,” John assured kindly but with still a lot of humour in his tone.

“How so?”

“Well, at the end of the night I’ll be going home with you, won’t I?” he joked. Sherlock searched his face for evidence that he was being made fun of, but John’s grin was honest and so he returned it. He visibly relaxed in his chair and took another sip.

“And now tell me who else won’t be going home alone tonight,” John prompted and Sherlock fell into his deduction mode as he pointed out the people who had been successful, and more interestingly, the ones who hadn’t and why. John tried to remember a night in a pub when he had had more fun than this, but he came up short. Sherlock, if he wanted to, could be perfectly entertaining and charming, and tonight he wanted to. When they went home after last call, John’s face hurt from laughing so much.


	2. Chapter 2

Not so long after that night out, John was at a conference and as those things usually turn out, it was boring and going on and on. He kept checking his watch but every time he did no more than two minutes (his record) had passed and he sighed and yawned alternately.

When it was finally over, they had a get-to-know-each-other planned, a kind of networking thing where people mingled, exchanged business cards and pretended they were more than just a local GP.

But the bar was nice.

And Sherlock was there. That was the boredom over with, at least.

He was lounging in one of the low leather armchairs, clad in a coal black suit and crisp white shirt, his hair artfully arranged and of course, because John had told him so, his legs spread wide. In one hand he held a tumbler with a golden liquid and ice from which he sipped occasionally in a way there was no way he hadn’t practised in front of a mirror because it looked like sin personified. He hadn’t yet met John’s eyes, but John knew he knew John was watching. As was everybody else in the barroom, as a matter of fact.

He didn’t go up to him because it was obvious Sherlock was practising his flirting skills. Not that he needed much of that and he obviously didn’t try any of his cheesy lines that he had found online, judging by the enchanted looks on the many a woman’s face he was talking to. There was kind of a queue forming, everyone trying their luck as the one before had taken her leave. Sherlock just sitting there as one after the other sat down opposite him trying to get him to buy her a drink.

“Good luck with that,” John muttered to himself as he turned around to get a second whiskey.

“What was that?” the lady next to him he hadn’t even noticed asked.

“Oh. Sorry. Nothing, ignore me,” John stuttered. But she had followed his gaze and was now focussing on Sherlock and something in her look shifted. John groaned inwardly. That was another one lost.

“It’s a shame he’s gay,” the woman said to his surprise, with a little sigh of regret. And surprised John was.

“I’m sorry?”

The woman pointed at Sherlock with her head.

“He’s gay.”

“How can you tell?”

“Ten women with low-cut dresses have presented themselves to him since I’ve been here, and his eyes have never strayed lower than to their chins. So either he’s gay or… no scratch that. He’s definitely gay.”

John laughed. Of course she was right and he noticed now that the regret she had expressed before was not because she had wanted some of Sherlock, but because he held the attention of seemingly every other woman in the room. He decided he liked her.

Sherlock found him about twenty minutes later in the men’s room. John was washing his hands when he heard the door open and met Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. There was a dangerous gleam to them. A shiver ran down John’s spine and he straightened his back unconsciously, on alert. Sherlock turned the key and the lock clicked, loud in the tense silence.

“What are you doing?” John asked in a rough voice. He noticed, almost subconsciously, the way Sherlock’s pupils had dilated in the bright light of the washroom and the predatory walk with which he was now coming towards John fast. John turned around to face him as long as he had the chance because already Sherlock was crowding into him, making him take a step back until he felt the hard edge of the sink press into his back.

“What am _I_ doing?” Sherlock asked in an impossibly low and sultry tone. “I should ask you the same question.” He was standing toe to toe with John, his chin tipped up so that he looked down at him from over his nose. He leaned forward, braced his arms on either side of John’s hips on the sink and took a deep breath right at his temple. John’s skin was deliciously on edge under his shirt as he felt his blood starting to rush south.

“Flirting with a woman, a soft woman. You don’t want soft tonight, do you? You want hard.” He was whispering directly above John’s ear and his breath was moving the hair gently. “You want it hard.” John dared meeting his eyes even though he knew the truth of what he wanted was plainly written in his own. Sherlock took a half step back, enough to muster him from a more comfortable distance.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he continued darkly, sinfully. “If you play your cards just right I’ll let you suck me right here, right now.” He ran his thumb over John’s lips and John just stopped himself from sucking it into his mouth. Sherlock stopped talking for a moment, his eyes on John’s lips as if mesmerised by them. “Or I might just have you now and take you home for dessert.” He spun John around and with a firm hand between his shoulder blades he bent him over the sink. He pressed his pelvis into John’s arse and leaned down, making sure he felt the drag of his clothes against his.

“What do you say now?” he whispered into John’s ear. John turned his head to the side, locked eyes with Sherlock, saw all the confidence there. He kissed him on the tip of his nose.

Sherlock was so surprised, he stumbled a few steps back. There was no confidence now, just confusion. John straightened up and turned around, grinning.

“I say that you’re too aggressive. You can do that to a bloke, if you’re really, really sure of your success, but do that to a woman and a slap in the face is the least of your worries. You wanna turn it down a whole lot, is what I’m saying.”

“Wh- what?” Sherlock stuttered.

“This is only hot in the movies. In the real world, it will get you a broken nose and maybe, if you’re lucky, only an ASBO,” John explained. He couldn’t deny that it was hot, but it didn’t mean he had liked being manhandled like that.

Sherlock looked at him with a million unasked questions clearly on the tip of his tongue. John wanted to take him home and feed him teeth-achingly sweet ice cream. He also wanted to disappear into one of the empty stalls of the washroom and get rid of a problem first, but the ice cream thought won out.

Sherlock sulked all the way home.


	3. Chapter 3

One Saturday afternoon, John found himself in the British Museum at the side of a woman ten years his junior. He didn’t know how he got there.

He’s never been a particular fan of museums and he isn’t usually interested in women so much younger than him. They had nothing in common, after all. It didn’t help that after the dissolution of his marriage he didn’t yet feel inclined to date, ever, again and also that he had rather hoped that the sparks he imagined he saw in one certain flatmate’s eyes might indicate a reciprocated interest. But no matter what, here he was, on a blind date one of his colleagues had bullied him into going.

To say John was less than enthusiastic was maybe an understatement. The only thing that elevated his mood was when he entered the exhibition room and saw a man stand in front of one of the glass boxes that caught his attention.

The man was clad in light blue jeans over trainers and wearing a well-fitting, slim-lined shirt as well as a gigantic scarf. His dark hair was gelled back and from what John could see of his face, he was wearing broad-rimmed glasses. He was staring at a reference book in his hand, a notebook and pen in the other. To every casual observer he looked like a student. To John, however, he looked like a Sherlock in disguise. John grinned.

He didn’t work to make their paths cross and he didn’t heed Sherlock anymore because he knew they would meet sooner or later and John could wait. It was fun to see the time tick by and imagine how Sherlock’s internal clock was ticking down to the moment when he could safely walk over to John and his companion, and he was enjoying himself. And then that moment was there.

Obviously Sherlock had gone to some lengths to disguise himself and was affecting a different persona, so John didn’t let it show that he knew the other man when they stepped next to him. Sherlock looked up at the couple, acknowledged them like any other person would. His eyes kept on John for a moment longer than usual and Sherlock shot a small, almost shy smile in John's direction that John returned readily. Then he waited. Surely Sherlock hadn't gone to all this trouble only to smile at John under false pretences.

"She's so tiny. Makes you wonder how tall people will be in another thousand years, eh?" John's date said about the mummified bog body they were standing in front of and unwittingly gave Sherlock the perfect opening.

"People in the 11th century were actually about as tall as people today," he said friendly. John was surprised at his voice, it was much higher than usual, which, in Sherlock's case, meant he sounded like the average male, but was still so very different from his usual voice. "It was only in the late medieval times that, because of pollution and bad hygiene, people lost height and shrunk. We've only been growing again the last 100 hundred years, but this is the natural height for humans." He smiled abashedly at the woman, as if he was embarrassed to have gate-crashed her and John's conversation. He pointed at the body again. "She is only so small because of the dehydration of the body."

John's date looked annoyed, which was a first, as women were usually charmed by Sherlock's looks, and this time, he wasn't even abrasive to explain her reaction. John decided then and there that what little interest he had had in her, and it was very little to begin with, was completely gone. He didn't even feel bad for ignoring her obvious wish to move on away from Sherlock.

"So you think there's still hope for us? If we drink enough?" he joked. His date got even more annoyed, outraged almost as she opened her mouth in a rebuke that was interrupted by Sherlock's low, melodic chuckle. It was too good a joke to pass on, John, who wasn't tall by any stretch, but Andie, his date, with her five feet was small even compared to him.

"Well, maybe not," Sherlock said and smiled warmly. He had taken John's example and completely ignored Andie who was getting noticeably uncomfortable now. He even went so far as to take a step forward which made _her_ take a step back, pushing her away without actually touching her.

"John," she reminded him of her presence. "Let's go somewhere else. All these bodies are creeping me out." John took a step away from her.

"I actually find them really interesting and would like to see the rest of the exhibition, if you don't mind." He was aware of the cold edge that had crept into his voice, but again it was Sherlock who spoke before Andie had a chance to.

"They have a man from the year 300 that is completely preserved. They reckon he was surprised by a storm and got stuck when the rain started falling too heavily." His voice had become a bit higher and a flush accompanied his fast words and gleaming eyes. John felt the huge answering grin on his own face.

"Where?" was all he asked and followed Sherlock, Andie completely, utterly forgotten.

<<< >>>

Sherlock was the perfect tour guide. He must have learnt the reference book by heart, could say something about every room they went into. John, honestly, wasn't all that much interested in all the many different things and cultures, but he was very interested in hearing Sherlock talk. His voice got deeper and deeper over time, even if it never quite reached his natural bass, and John was practically glued to his lips and every word.

"Let me buy you a coffee," John insisted almost three hours later. They had long lost Andie somewhere and neither man could exactly say when or where. John knew he should feel bad about it, but he couldn't really muster the energy to it, even though he knew that he was going to apologise. Tomorrow, maybe, with flowers? Perhaps a text message.

Sherlock readily accepted and John led them both into the museum cafe, where they snatched a table and talked and talked. Sherlock had introduced himself under a false name again and John knew that he was doing it for some reason, even though John couldn't figure out what that reason was, yet he played along. It was too much fun, and he was enjoying himself too much to stop the charade.

But then, at some point, the cafe closed and the staff was putting the chairs up around John and Sherlock in their subtle way of telling them to leave the hell now.

"I guess we should head home, eh?" he asked. Sherlock's face lit like a lamp when you turn it on. John's eyes grew wide at the extremely sudden change.

"Hah!" Sherlock burst out. "Gotcha!"

"What?" John laughed when he had recovered from the change.

"I'm taking you home," Sherlock explained excitedly. "I've really got this flirting thing. Granted, it took five hours, but it's the result that counts, wouldn't you say?" John laughed even harder at that.

"You're taking me home?" he repeated and Sherlock nodded. "Erm, nope, mate, sorry." He couldn't just let Sherlock believe that, obviously. "It's me who's taking you home. That's a huge difference." Sherlock's face fell and his adorable lower lip jutted out.

"But, I engaged you. I made you leave your date behind. You might feel like you decided to take me home, but I planted the idea into your head." John's mouth fell actually open then. Sherlock got it so wrong.

"Nope, no, no, that's not right," he insisted and enjoyed to got one up on Sherlock for once. "Yes, you've been engaging and interesting, but at no point did you express any interest in me. You've been nothing but polite and maybe a bit lonely. Hell, I didn't even know you've been _flirting_ until you've said so!"

"But," Sherlock started and John waited mock-patiently for his explanation, the one that never came as Sherlock thought back on those five hours and had to see that it was true, he had never made any move, not even a covert one, on John. His shoulders slumped dejectedly.

"The last time you said I was too aggressive. Now you're telling me I wasn't aggressive enough. How am I supposed to know how forward I should be? What is the right amount?" he complained. John shrugged his shoulders. He didn't feel very bad for his friend's useless efforts, if he was being honest. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock flirting and didn't want to give him too many pointers.

"Dunno. Depends, I suppose."

"But on what?" Sherlock wanted to know. He kept asking John all the way home, which they walked, because it was a lovely evening and the air felt so nice. By and by John gave him a few tips before he could turn the conversation to what they would do for dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

They met again in another pub the next time. The smile fixed itself on John's face without his doing just when he saw the so familiar figure sitting at a small table near the bar. John itched to go over there, but he also knew that Sherlock had some kind of plan and John didn't want to spoil it. Furthermore, he was curious himself and so he waited. It didn't mean he ever lost sight of Sherlock.

Sherlock pretended not to see John at first. He was fiddling with his phone or letting his gaze roam around the room. He looked like he was waiting for someone. It kept people at bay. John could tell there was more than one woman in the large room of the pub who had her sight set on Sherlock, which was typical, John thought. The idiot had it so easy.

It was some minutes and John was almost through his first pint when Sherlock established eye contact. His gaze fell upon John and even from across the room John could see his eyes widening. A smile spread across Sherlock's face slowly before he averted his eyes by turning his head down, only to look at John once more from below his lashes a blink or two later. Coy. John nodded appreciatively. From then on, he couldn't take his eyes off the other man.

A while later Sherlock caught his eyes once more, again with a smile, but this one was more brazen and more open. His eyes twinkled in the twilit room as he brushed some hair behind his ear. John was surprised. It was a move he had seen many women pull and it was completely unexpected in Sherlock, who sometimes brushed hair out of his eyes when it got too long, but wasn't one to habitually play with his curls. Yet he did that just now, still looking at John before he again looked away.

The next time their eyes met, Sherlock fingered his open collar. It wasn't overly overt, not completely out of place, yet there could be no doubt in John's mind that the move was calculated to draw John's eyes to the miles of Sherlock's neck. So he didn't feel bad when they did just that, linger on the white skin and the very visible sinews Sherlock's finger played against. This was rather fun.

It was the fourth contact that John saw his opening. Sherlock sought him out with his eyes and when he was sure of John's attention, he brought his glass to his mouth to take the last sip. He put the now empty glass down on the table and pushed it away from him, towards John, letting his long, thin middle finger run along the rim twice. If that wasn't an invitation, then John had never seen one. With a laugh he got up. Would that it always were this easy, picking someone up in a pub. Yet he was absurdly aware that this was a game, an experiment for Sherlock. But at least it was fun one for John, too.

He murmured a word or two to his mates and left them behind in favour for the bar, where he ordered two pints and then carried them over to Sherlock's little table. He slid one glass over to Sherlock.

"I hope you don't mind, but you looked thirsty," he opened. Sherlock beamed at him, with teeth and it didn't look creepy. Obviously he had worked on that one. Before John could take the hand that had been pushing the glass back, Sherlock caught it in his and gave it a light, affectionate squeeze. John raised one brow.

"Thank you," Sherlock tittered and John's other brow joined the first one near his hair line. Sherlock didn't usually _titter_. Sherlock let John's hand go and took a sip of his beer. Afterwards he licked his lips free of the foam, something that was once more calculated to draw John's eyes somewhere, his lips, this time. Of course they let themselves be drawn most readily.

They fell into an easy conversation, John spoke mostly and Sherlock listened raptly. His eyes widened at the right places, his mouth fell open and he made all the right sounds at the right times. John had to give it to him, he was the textbook listener. John had never felt more interesting, it didn't even matter what he said, Sherlock made it look like he had never been more captivated, and even though John knew it was all calculated to draw him in, to make him feel great, well, it worked. It worked perfectly.

Then there were the other things Sherlock did. As if unconsciously, when he leaned closer to John to hear him better when a group of people got a bit louder on another table. When he kept brushing his hand over his hair and showed off his neck, his vulnerable, snow-white neck, in submission. When he tilted his head to show John just where he was supposed to bite down. The way Sherlock kept fondling the glass, how he curled his hand around it and let it slide up and down, or how, afterwards, he'd lick the condensation from his fingers. Or how he found one excuse after the other to touch John's hand, arm, shoulder. It never felt crass or overdone, John had to admit, it was perfect. Sherlock was doing it perfectly. He could charge women to observe him and take notes.

It was much too much. The next time Sherlock slapped his hand in jest, John caught it and turned it over in his palm.

"Sherlock," he said leaning closer. Sherlock's demeanour changed in the blink of an eye. The smile fell from his face and he looked apprehensive.

"It's not working?" he asked in a quiet voice. John nodded.

"Yeah." Sherlock's lower lip jutted out, ever ready for a pout, but at the same time he looked sadly exasperated.

"I've read _articles_ ," he said with emphasis. "I've even watched two movies." He clearly regretted all that wasted time.

“What was it, erm,  _How to flirt (With pictures)_ on wikihow?” John snorted at the idea before he sobered again. "It's just too much." He felt like he owed his friend an explanation. "Look, this is perfect, you're perfect. You win every price. If you were a woman, you'd have your pick of the litter."

Sherlock's eyes burned into John's and he was angry. "So it's because I'm a man," he spit angrily. "You're not _straight_ , John, please do us all a favour and stop pretending so that we can all move on." He would have said much more, but John interrupted him when he squeezed the hand he still held captive. He smiled what he thought was his reassuring one at Sherlock and Sherlock sighed whole-heartedly, but shut up.

"What I meant to say was, that you've acted too much like a woman. Sherlock. If I wanted a woman, I'd try to pick up a woman. I wouldn't flirt with you. I can't talk for all blokes who like other blokes, but I doubt they look for a man who behaves like a woman. Do you understand what I want to say?" He could see the cogs turning in Sherlock's head as his eyes became glassy.

"Those articles you've read, were they in your women's magazines? The movies, were they an all-female cast?" Sherlock's mouth fell open around a soft oh. John nodded and with a last squeeze, let go of Sherlock's hand. "That was your mistake."

A minute passed and then Sherlock sought out John's gaze again. He smiled shyly, with a bit of his old confidence shining through at the edges.

"Does that mean you won't take me home tonight?" he asked cheekily. John laughed.

"Only if you promise never to ... touch ... your hair like that again." It was Sherlock's turn to chuckle. John thanked God that it was his usual low chuckle. "What was that even? Do they really tell you to do that? And the way you fondled that glass? Goodness, I thought it would split any moment under your gigantic hand."


	5. Chapter 5

When they met in the superstore, John was inclined to believe it was an honest coincidence. There were simply too many people around for it to be a calculated occurrence. The only thing was that Sherlock hated shopping and could only be persuaded to do it in a small, three aisle store, but he absolutely loathed the big ones with their miles of wares, crying babies and hectic shoppers.

Yet here John was, grabbing for the last of the full fat mango yogurt, and there was Sherlock, grabbing for the very same jar at the same time and John hadn't even seen him come up. He let go of the jar and apologised, then he recognised the long fingers and the frankly huge hand and looked up into the face of the person he had just apologised to without looking at them.

Sherlock smiled. He was obviously somewhat embarrassed, wouldn't really meet John's eye and nodded at him.

"Sorry, no, you have it," Sherlock muttered. Only then did he really look at John and his smile became real and warm, interest flickered in his eyes. He laughed and brushed his hand over the hair at the back of his head.

"This is cheesy," he said, "Like in the movies." Again he found John's eyes and grinned at him toothily before his look turned pained.

"Sorry, I’m rattling on. I'm not usually that nervous, but you're the spitting image of my ex-boyfriend," Sherlock explained between smiles and shy glances all over John's body. "Except he was blonder." He flinched and his shoulders slumped a bit. "Not to say that you're not blonde.” He glanced nervously at John’s admittedly quite grey hair. “Just, his hair was lighter than yours. Sorry. I'll stop talking now."

John just laughed on the inside. So, they were flirting again, he got it. He had to admit that so far, Sherlock was on the right path. A minute into their acquaintance and John knew that Sherlock was gay and obviously attracted to men looking like himself.

"Ex?" John played along and gracefully ignored the comment about his grey hair. Sherlock picked up on the threat eagerly and bestowed John with a lovely big smile.

"Yeah, I broke up with him a few months ago. I just couldn't see a future together, you know what I mean?" With what he let John know that he was looking for something serious. That was good. John licked his lips and leaned against his trolley casually.

"I see," he said and let his eyes wander over Sherlock now, which the man didn't notice, as he was busy checking out John in turn. Again. Definitely interested.

"So," John said.

"Yeah," Sherlock picked up. And now came the pivotal point, where it would show if Sherlock had learned anything. Normally, at this point, when John knew that he was being flirted at and if he was interested in turn, he would pick the conversation up. He was well-versed in this, he'd done it so many more times than he could care to count. But this was Sherlock's game, so John wanted to see where the man could and would take it from here.

Sherlock now started in on John's trolley, which at this point in the market wasn't yet full, but there was a fair bit in it already none the less. The quantity of each product was easily read to amount for more than one person.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologised again, "I didn't mean to keep you. Surely you want to get back home to your family." He nodded at John and almost stepped away, but his hesitation and the raised eyebrow betrayed the real underlying question. John was happy enough to answer.

"No, no family. Just my flatmate."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose even higher. "Flatmate?" he asked. "Or 'flatmate'?" To John’s immense amusement, he put the word in airquotes.

"No, no, just flatmates. No more," he assured Sherlock. Sherlock smiled again, again that warm thing that suited him so extraordinarily well.

"Good," Sherlock said and then cleared his throat when John tilted his head in question. "Erm, I mean, good that I don't keep you." And once more his eyes swept over John's body. John felt very flattered at this point, but even more so, when Sherlock asked, "Do you happen to know anything about cheeses?" and then continued to talk to him about just that for many minutes before their conversation shifted to other topics, people in the shop, products, the season, the weather, anything really, and time passed in a rush. They finished their shopping and then sat down in the supermarket cafe for a coffee trying to postpone the moment when they would have to part ways.

Sherlock let him know through many, many hints that he was interested in John, but this time he was neither aggressive nor shy. He was eager, yes, but charmingly so. When the time came that John could no longer delay his leave, he had to give it to Sherlock. He had won.

"Normally I would give you my number at this point," he told Sherlock and Sherlock immediately knew the game was over and sat up straighter. "And ask for yours in return. I'd text you later tonight to ask if you wanted to meet up again. Maybe not a supermarket, but a pub. Well done, Sherlock! You were great, not exactly subtle, but not intrusive, either." John had meant it as a compliment, because truthfully, Sherlock was beautiful. John had truly enjoyed himself in his company one more time. He was just a bit sad that it was after all, in the end, a game and Sherlock meant none of it. Because this Sherlock John would love to have him take home.

John was so preoccupied with his own not exactly happy thoughts that at first he didn't notice that Sherlock wasn't as happy about his compliment as John would have expected him to be. He couldn't quite figure out why, and it wouldn't leave him alone all the way home, which the two men took silently and deep in thought.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented (and did so multiple times even!) and made my weekend awesome! Comments is what I do this for!

Over breakfast one morning days later something in the paper reminded John of Sherlock and his attempts at flirting and he realised he had no idea what had come of it.

"How's your case going?" he asked and Sherlock's puzzled look told him he really should elaborate because Sherlock couldn't actually read minds, it just often appeared as if.

"The one with the flirting. You learned to flirt, what was that for? You never told me," John clarified. Recognition shimmered in Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh," he said, "That one. No, that didn't work out."

"Really? I thought you did rather well by the end." Sherlock merely harumpfted and John let the topic drop. It was a shame, really. Sherlock had become an expert flirt and he didn't even get to use his skills.

Still, the thing wouldn't leave John alone and it was much later that same day that he understood why. Sherlock hadn't been on a case without John for ages, maybe as long as a year. There was simply no case John knew of that would have required Sherlock to flirt his way through to someone. And it was impossible that there was a case John hadn't heard of. They spent way too much time together for Sherlock to be able to do something on his own.

"There was no case, was there?" When John voiced the question that hadn't even fully formed in his head, he himself could hear he sadness in his tone. Sherlock shook his head minutely and didn't meet John's eyes. And then John cursed himself for not seeing it earlier.

"You never used your own name." John offered it as an explanation, not as an accusation, but he was stopped short in his ramblings by the hurt look on Sherlock's face.

"Right," John said.

<<< >>>

But if Sherlock had tried flirting with John, what did that mean? Why had he done it? What was his motive?

John agonised over it, but days passed and he couldn't make head nor tail of it. He kept coming back to only one explanation, but that one seemed impossible.

It was time for an experiment of his own.

Sherlock would understand. He was a scientist, after all.

<<< >>>

"What're you reading?" John placed one hand on one shoulder and bent over the other, bracketing Sherlock's head between his arm and his body. He stroked his thumb lazily over the hard sinews in Sherlock's neck.

"Just," Sherlock stuttered and unseen by him, John smiled. "Some article." John pushed his thumb down a bit harder and Sherlock paused. John could see him shut his eyes. It looked almost blissful. "About space ... stuff."

"Sounds riveting." John let him read his space article in peace.

<<< >>>

He couldn't ask Sherlock about his day and then pretend it was the most fascination story John had ever heard, because he already did that all the time and Sherlock's life _was_ fascinating, no need to pretend.

<<< >>>

If John had learned one thing from all this, it was that he had an impact on Sherlock. Anything he did triggered a reply in his friend. If John was bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, then Sherlock was quiet and considerate. When John was bored out of his mind, Sherlock was full of mad energy and not above running the both of them wild. When John commented on the ever-changing colour of Sherlock’s eyes, said eyes became big and round and blinking rapidly. John loved that. He's come to recognise this as Sherlock being surprised out of his depth. John loved being able to do that with just an off-hand remark about the colour of the sky after a wild storm clearing at open sea, when the wind chased some of the dark grey clouds away and the first hint of cerulean peaked through.

<<< >>>

He tried something with a statuette at a client’s home. It was a weird shape, remotely phallic the way it broadened fatly at the end. John touched the tip of his index finger to the base and let it run its course all the way up to the tip.

"What d'you reckon this is?" he asked Sherlock and so drew the man's attention to his finger stroking the length of the figurine. Immediately Sherlock swallowed and John smiled smugly. It was okay, Sherlock didn’t see. His eyes were glued to John's hand lovingly caressing the cool, white marble.

"No idea." When Sherlock spoke, his voice was strained and his throat sounded dry. So of course John wrapped his whole hand around the shaft of the statuette. It didn’t even remotely close all the way around and Sherlock nearly whined. It was truly magnificent to observe. "Who knows with art, or what passes as such."

"Hm," John reflected and kept stroking the smooth marble. Sherlock's body, by then, was fully turned to John, completely open and John dared let his eyes fall to the man’s centre. A small bulge confirmed what his compulsive swallowing and now more laboured breathing indicated any way. John decided it was enough for then. There were people around. And he had proved his point. John was, after all and in undeniable fact, able to arouse Sherlock.

Who would’ve thought?

<<< >>>

“I didn’t get it,” John said out of the blue over coffee another day. Sherlock didn’t know what he was talking about, but couldn’t admit it. It was incredibly endearing and John allowed the smile to be as big as was appropriate for his little insecurity. “That you were flirting with me,” he added in explanation.

“Who did you think I was flirting at?” Sherlock asked very slowly. His eyes scanned the room as if checking for people he might have overlooked. “I’ve _touched_ you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a bit slow sometimes.” John shrugged in self-deprecation but still smiled. It took a little while, but then, finally, Sherlock reciprocated it. He bit his lip and couldn’t hold John’s gaze the whole time which only made John’s smile grow wider. He nudged Sherlock’s foot under the table with his own and when Sherlock nudged back, John caught his foot and trapped it between both his. The tips of Sherlock’s ears became a bit red then.

John vowed that one day not too far in the future he would see the rest of the man blush, too.

<<< >>>

Sherlock stood in front of the open fridge and contemplated the contents. He'd been doing that for the last few minutes when John decided to intervene to go easy on their electricity bill.

"It won't fill up magically if you just stand here and stare at it." He slid his hand up Sherlock's spine and into the hair at the nape of his neck and pretended not to notice the shiver he provoked thereby while Sherlock kept resolutely staring ahead. Yet even from this angle John could see his eyes were blown wide. The man was so receptive to touch, it took John's breath away and his throat felt dry.

"We could go shopping," he offered hoarsely, his eyes raking over Sherlock's face.

"Or we could go out and have dinner." Sherlock finally looked at John and oh yes, there could be no doubt that he was hungry.

"Or we could stay in, order takeaway." John licked his lips. "Call it a date."

"Isn't that where you go out and have fun?" Sherlock turned around to face him and John's hand fell down on his shoulder.

"Going out isn't mandatory." There was something about Sherlock's lips that made it impossible to look away. Absently he noticed how incredibly close Sherlock stood and when he spoke, John could feel the man's breath against the skin of his face.

"Is the food?"

John felt his face slowly split in two by a huge grin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-promotion: I have a [tumblr](http://yesilian.tumblr.com)! Come and be friends!


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